


See No Evil

by sunflowerbright



Series: Hotel California [9]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>”Do you really think you mean so little to me?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>or, the one with the aunt and a revelation</p>
            </blockquote>





	See No Evil

****

Jehan stumbles in through Grantaire’s door later that day, pale as a sheet and with a cut on his hand that is bleeding much more than Grantaire is comfortable with.

”Jehan!” he barely catches the other man before he tumbles to the floor, pulling him into the kitchen and over to the sink. ”Fucking hell, what happened?”

”I almost killed Feuilly,” Jehan says. Grantaire drops the towel he’d picked up to press against the wound.

“You _what?”_

Jehan laughs without humour. “I see dead people,” he whispers. “I keep seeing my mother from the Nineteenth Century. Her name was Claudine and she had the most beautiful laugh. And she told me I had to, and I don’t know what happened, but I was going to, oh God, Grantaire I _would’ve…”_

“Take it easy, take a deep breath,” he squeezes the other man’s shoulder. “Is Feuilly…”

“I didn’t actually do it,” Jehan mumbles, tears sliding over his face. “I’m… I told her no, and she… she just disappeared but then I suddenly stumbled, I mean, not over anything, I just fell, and my hand went through the window and I cut myself, and I was so terrified, and Courf is with Enjolras because he needed his help or something, and I didn’t know where else to go, fuck, Grantaire, I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, everything is fine,” Grantaire reassures him. “How long have you… I mean…”

“I’m not crazy!”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, I believe you, okay. Seeing ghosts is not the craziest thing to happen to us lately. Also our access to opium has gone down, so I’m counting out hallucinations. I’m rolling with it. Freaking out, but rolling with it.”

“It’s been almost a month,” Jehan admits, willingly giving over his hand to be bandaged up to the best of Grantaire’s abilities (which granted aren’t that great in this field, but he has done it enough times to not mess it up completely).

“A _month_? Why haven’t you told anyone?!”

Jehan shakes his head lightly. “I don’t know. I guess I thought… if I waited, maybe it would happen to the rest of you, like with the memories,” he turns his head to look at Grantaire. “Have you…”

“Nope, no dead people, aside from, well, us I guess,” _and Mabeuf, if he counts._ “But it seems I’m not a member of the VIP-Reincarnation club when it comes to that, so I can’t speak for the others. But if Joly had seen a ghost, he would not be shutting up about it, so there’s that.”

“It’s just me then,” Jehan mutters.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” he keeps holding the other man’s hand even after he’s done wrapping it up. Jehan doesn’t seem to mind, and to be honest, he thinks they both need something grounding right now. And then it hits him. “Jehan…”

“Yes?”

“Do you believe….” He stops himself. “Let’s sit down,” he pulls him over to the table. “It’s just… do you believe in good and evil? I mean, not in general, as in, people do shitty things or people do good things, but as in… forces. Like… light and darkness.”

Jehan frowns. “That’s what she said,” he whispers, and Grantaire has to lean closer over the table to actually hear him. “She was… my mother… she was going on and on about destiny and how I was preventing good by staying with all of you, how you were going to fail and I had to stop you.”

Fuck. Grantaire reaches up to rub at his temples. “I need a drink.”

“Please don’t, I heard about last night, Enjolras would kill me.”

Grantaire snorts. “He’s more likely to just kill me.”

“He wouldn’t, he... He’s very worried about you, all the time,” Jehan looks like he’s slowly coming out of his shocked state, talking about something else. “He’s very… he isn’t exactly a casual person, with anything, so he’s probably pretty scared by how intensely he feels for you, and you’re not helping by being you.”

“Thanks, Jehan.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do you remember Mabeuf?” it’s his new favourite question. And he desperately needs to change the subject right now.

Jehan’s eyes widen.

“Do you??”

“No, but I met him. Apparently he’s become immortal or something, because the woman who also brought us back, according to him at least, she thought he was cute or something. I don’t know. She’s been keeping him around for hundreds of years, it’s kind of creepy.”

“I feel like we’ve stumbled into a really bad science fiction show.”

“Fantasy, Jehan, it’s fantasy.”

“Right, because of the ghosts!”

“Evil ghosts, apparently. I’m still waiting for the zombies.”

Jehan takes a deep breath. “This is all insane. Are they… are they trying to pit us against each other? And when’s it going to work?”

“They’re testing you,” Grantaire says, remembering what Mabeuf had said. “It’s part of some recruiting-process. You’re being weighted and measured, and I think you just passed yours. Whatever that means.”

“And is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know if Mabeuf is secretly hiding devil-horns underneath his metaphorical hat, or if Feuilly has gone mad and will axe-murder us all tonight, or if I was meant to die when Javert shot me, because I… because I am the bad guy, and he’s not. _I don’t know_.”

Jehan grits his teeth. “We’re not bad people.”

“Maybe not. Maybe we’re not good either. Maybe it’s not even a choice.”

“Everything is a choice,” Jehan says: he looks steadfast and sure and calmer than when he walked in through the door. Which is a relief, because he’d looked about as calm as the ground during an earth-shake. “Or I will have… I would have done what Claudine asked me to.”

“You don’t have it in you.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Grantaire is thankful the aspirin has started to kick in, because he can think at least a little clearly: on the other hand, his thoughts are hammers and nails, boring into his brain, so he ends up closing his eyes just for a moment, trying to keep it all at bay.

“If you start seeing more dead people, please tell me. Or Courfeyrac. Or just anyone, okay? You shouldn’t have to deal with this shit on your own.”

“Please take your own advice, Grantaire.”

“When the hell did you become so snarky?”

Jehan groans. “I don’t know. I don’t… I’m having trouble recognizing myself lately. I keep forgetting the date, keep forgetting that I’m not participating in a Rebellion any minute now. Keep forgetting I have History-class instead of going to the other end of town to get guns or something. I’m scared I’m going to burn out soon.”

“You’re not,” Grantaire tells him, because if there is anything Jehan can do, it’s prevailing through the worst of it. “You can get through this. I’m sorry about your mother, and really happy you didn’t kill anyone, just for the record, but I know you can do this.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Jehan shifts, a little uncomfortably, in his seat. “If you see any… I mean, just anything weird or…”

“You’ll be the first I call. Well, after possibly waking up Eponine and Azelma with the hysterical screaming.”

Jehan smiles slightly at that. “What about Enjolras? You sleeping together?”

Ah. Enjolras.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he says, but then he just feels… deflated. “I’m… maybe not anymore.”

“What?” Jehan frowns. “Oh no, not again. Can you two go more than a week without shouting at each other?”

“It’s physically impossible. I think I’d actually catch on fire or something. It’s just a fact of nature,” he tries to smile, but it must come out like a Picasso-painting. “I don’t think… I’m not… fuck it. It’s not going to work, Jehan. I don’t know why he keeps coming back when I’m such a dick to him, and just in general, and I think… I need to… I don’t know if it’s because once he’s set his mind on something he’s determined to see it through, but it can’t be… healthy, or whatever. It really can’t.”

“You should be talking with him about this.”

“But I _can’t_. That’s when the shouting begins.”

“Then find another way to say it,” Jehan offers, like he isn’t the King of Perfect Social Interactions, in most cases anyway.

“Yeah, I don’t know. Can we talk about something else?”

“Want to go back to discussing my dead mother?”

“How does that even work? Your parents aren’t the same here as they were back then? Like Cosette’s mother and Valjean are the same, or I guess they’re the same, but it doesn’t…”

“I don’t know how it works,” Jehan mumbles. “Why some of them are back and some aren’t. Courf’s parents aren’t the same either, but Marius’ were. And Enjolras, but he says they don’t have their memories, or at least, he’s pretty sure they don’t… he doesn’t really, uh, talk much to them. Or at all, really.”

Grantaire has to swallow heavily, because it hits him then, how selfish he has been with all of this. Enjolras had opened up so much about his fears on this whole Reincarnation-carnival that was their lives, and he, in his desire to avoid the topic completely, hadn’t properly reassured him, hadn’t asked, hadn’t even appeared interested.

He’d been too busy freaking out about himself instead. There’s a hollow feeling in his chest because of that admission – he takes his phone and has shot off a quick text saying _‘sorry’_ before he can even really think much about it, and ugh, bad choice. It doesn’t ever go well when they try to solve things over the phone. Or any other way they try to solve things, come to think of it.

That’s when he notices Jehan has started frowning again.

“What is it?”

“If this was a test for me,” Jehan mutters. “Which is a disturbing thought, then… what about the others? Do you think they’re being… tested as well? Right now maybe?”

“I feel like every single day of life is a test,” Grantaire bites out. “And if I suddenly have to go collect a lions’ skin or jump through a ring of fire, then let me just say, Mabeuf can go fuck himself, because I’m not going to do it.”

Jehan looks apprehensive. “Maybe they know that,” he says. “Maybe they’re going to do something different. It was… it was scary, but it was all about… I knew I had to make a choice, and I knew when I had chosen right. I mean, okay, even if it wasn’t right for whoever made the test, then it was right for me. I would never harm my friends.”

Grantaire just nods. “If you’re scared about the tests, maybe you should go and find Courfeyrac? See if he’s okay?”

“Yeah,” Jehan mumbles, slowly getting up to leave. “I should. Do you want to come with? Enjolras is with him. I can make sure you don’t start punching each other or something.”

“No, I’ll talk to him later. Just… tell him I’m sorry? And that… that I’ll see him later? Tomorrow or something.”

“I’ll tell him,” Jehan agrees, giving him a tight hug before leaving. Grantaire waits until his friend’s footsteps have faded away, before putting on his own jacket, locking the door behind him.

He ends up having to take the metro and walk a little ways, because he doesn’t really want to explain to any of the others why he’s requesting to borrow a car from one of them. The few who wouldn’t ask questions are using them, not to mention that all of them gossip too much, and it’d come out anyway. He needs… he wants just a measure of secrecy. He’s tired of having to explain his every move, even if it is to his friends, who are only worried about him.

He’s spent too long waiting already. And of course the nurses at the damn place make him wait a little longer.

He’s just happy Cosette isn’t at work today.

“She’s ready for you now,” a woman with a turquoise streak running through her hair tells him, leading him down the hallway and into the small lounge where his aunt is waiting for him.

He stops in shock. She looks… she looks like she has aged a hundred years, instead of the… what is it, fourteen? Fifteen? that it has actually been. Her hair has gone shockingly white, and she looks thin as paper, her fingers appearing even longer than they had before, when he was little, and she would card them gently through his curls, trying to remove leaves and twigs and whatever else had ended up in them on his merry adventures.

“Ella? Ella, you have a visitor,” the nurse tells the woman gently. “It’s your nephew, Raphael.”

That gets a reaction: Ella blinks in surprise, and turns her head slightly away from the window she was staring out of: he is almost afraid that her neck will break with the movement, it’s so small and thin. Blue eyes, once the same shade as his, but lighted by age and pain, meets his. They well up with tears.

“Hello, auntie Ella,” he says, not moving towards her, because he is rooted to the spot. He remembers, the few times he saw her in prison, how wild she looked. He remembers how she had looked at him on _that night_ , how terrified and dangerous. He’d woken up with the memory of it, the taste of ashes in the back of his mouth, just a few days ago, and Enjolras had been there, had held him and mumbled reassuring nonsense against his ear. He’d asked what it was, when Grantaire had calmed down again. He’d simply replied _‘nightmare’._

He hadn’t told the whole truth and said _‘a memory’._

A reminder.

“Raphael,” Ella greets him, and smiles, and he can feel every muscle in his body relax. He nods to the nurse, indicating they’ll be fine, and she leaves them alone. He moves to take the chair across from his aunt, the sunlight hitting them both, an odd comfort in this still and listless place.

“How have you been?” she asks. Her small, wrinkled hands are shaking, her eyes flittering a little nervously back and forth, but the smile is still there, and it’s genuine. He almost wants to smile back.

“I’ve been alright,” Grantaire says. “I still live in the city, with an old friend and her siblings. Well, when they’re there, which is really not often. I’m working as a cook and a bartender and caterer, and trying to get something at an art gallery, but it’s not really working out yet.”

“You should show them your paintings of that Enjolras-fellow,” his aunt says, and Grantaire nearly falls off his chair.

“ _Excuse me?”_

She waves her hand a little bit, her voice turning shaky now. “Oh, don’t be mad, please. It’s that dear girl, she’s been so kind in answering all my questions about you. The blonde one, what is her name, it’s something with a C or a Z or… Colette?”

“Cosette.” Ah. Great. Cosette had been spying on him for his aunt. Great.

“You mustn’t be mad at her, I was being so stubborn about it. But they are wonderful, your paintings, the ones she showed me. Your mother was the same, you know, she was always drawing, though she unfortunately didn’t have the proper patience with it, not like you do. You drew me, once, if you remember, when you were very little. I ended up looking like an elephant on a bus, but it was the finest elephant on a bus I have ever seen.”

“An elephant… oh god.” What the hell was happening?

“I still have it somewhere, I think.”

“Auntie Ella… Ella… why didn’t you ask Cosette to contact me, if you wanted to talk?” as soon as the question leaves his mouth he already knows the answer.

His aunt almost falls in on herself, as if trying to appear smaller, hiding away from him and the entire world.

“What I did… you should not ever want to see me again, boy.”

Grantaire looks down at his hands. “I didn’t. Not for a very long time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. Not just in a… but I _know_ that you are. But I was just a kid back then, and I didn’t… I know you weren’t yourself, when you did it. And that’s why I’m here now, because I wanted to ask…” he stops himself, gaining courage. “I wanted to ask what it was… what made you do it?”

She lowers her eyelids slightly, as if she’s going half to sleep, but he can still feel her watching him. Her knuckles are turning white, she’s clutching her hands into fists so hard.

He realizes he’s doing the exact same thing.

“What exactly are you asking me?”

_‘You cannot be here! You need to leave! What is your name boy?’_

_‘You cannot be here!’_

“I’m asking if you remembered,” Grantaire says. “I’m asking if, in that moment right before you went to get the gasoline and the lighter, you remembered another life, a life too many years ago, a life that couldn’t have happened, and it ruined you because you were all alone with it. I’m asking if you looked down on me, and all you could see was a little boy from the Nineteenth century, a little boy that looked exactly like me.”

She leans her head back, still watching him. “Yes,” she says. “I remembered. And I’m so, so sorry. I failed my test. I’m so sorry.” The last words come out in a broken sob, and Grantaire has to stop himself from reaching out and comfort her, because he doesn’t… he doesn’t know what to do.

“My friend got haunted and nearly killed someone he cares about,” the world is spinning, out of control. “What was your test? What’s the other’s going to be? What happens if we fail?”

A police officer shooting at ghosts and a grieving woman setting a house on fire with an eleven-year old boy inside of it. He wonders if they really knew what they were doing. He wonders why it had to be him at the brunt of it, both times.

Maybe this is his punishment for the reward that was not remembering.

He wonders if he will still get a test.

“I left her, Grantaire, I left!”

“You left who?”

“Your mother… I am so sorry. They said… they said I had failed, and so she couldn’t use me anymore.”

A nurse comings storming in, suddenly. “I think that’s quite enough,” she says. “I’m sorry sir, your aunt is obviously distressed.”

Grantaire ignores her, getting up from the chair to grab Ella’s hand: it’s thin like paper between his.

“What’s her name? Do you know her?!”

She looks at him, and answers through tears. “She calls herself Ana-Maria. And she’s terrible, Grantaire. She’s terrible.”

 

*

 

Grantaire’s been over-exerting himself today, so he ends up practically collapsing on his bed when he comes home, the only thing keeping him awake being the army of thoughts amassing in his head, marching out of reach and digging trenches, boring holes until he’s too filled with them all to focus, to comprehend…

The door opens and he knows, from the steadfast, sure steps moving towards him, that it’s Enjolras. He has to stop himself from burrowing further into his blankets, hiding so that the man won’t find him, won’t argue with him again, won’t look at him with pity and anger and say _‘it’s over…’_

Enjolras has slipped into the bed and gently placed an arm over his waist, pulling him closer, before Grantaire can even finish the thought.

“I can hear you’re awake,” Enjolras mumbles into his hair, his breath coming out in short puffs. He sounds, not like he’s been running, but maybe shouting, like when he’s holding one of his speeches and is burning with fire and lightening, a beautiful chaos of a storm, and other such grand descriptions that Grantaire won’t get into now.

His response is to bury his face in the pillow, because fuck it, they’re not having this conversation now.

Except _of course_ they are.

“I’m sorry I called you a coward earlier,” Enjolras mumbles, his grip tightening. “I really am, I didn’t mean it, I was just so angry and you know how stupid and careless I get when I’m angry, especially when I’m angry with you. You get to me, more than you know, and I feel so goddamn helpless, because I don’t know how to shake you out of it, when you get like that. And you scared me.”

“It’s not just going to go away,” Grantaire says then, dejected, tired. Sad. “I’m going to stay this way, you know. I’m going to come home drunk, I’m going to fall down into the metaphorical basement and be a crying mess that lashes out at anything in his path. And if you can’t… fuck, Enjolras, if you can’t handle that, then just tell me, because it’s not fair if you say you can and then… oh god, I am so fucking sorry, okay? I basically attacked you, and you shouldn’t have to deal with this, not this shit, not… you should probably leave.”

Enjolras draws in a sharp breath. “Do you… do you want me to leave?”

 _No,_ Grantaire thinks. _I want you to stay. Forever. I never want you to leave again._ He could say that: and Enjolras would stay. And the next time this happened – the next time the demons came to knock on his door and tap-dance on his mind – they’d go over the same thing again, exactly like this. Enjolras wouldn’t be able to handle it – _Grantaire_ isn’t even able to handle it. He surprises himself, when he realizes he is not selfish enough to trap Enjolras like this. The man deserves so much better, and Grantaire knows, has known since he first met him, that he is never going to be able to give that to him.

“Yes,” he lies, ignoring the tears creating a wet spot on his pillow, thankful that they don’t show in his voice. He can practically hear Enjolras’ grit his teeth behind him.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Enjolras says, but it lacks heat and conviction, and Grantaire’s heart almost stops when he realizes that Enjolras sounds… sounds broken.

“You asked. I answered.” He’s not sure how he manages to sound so detached. But clearly it isn’t fooling Enjolras.

“We can… can we talk about this in the morning?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Grantaire, goddammit!” Enjolras takes hold of his shoulder and pulls until they’re facing each other: even in the darkness of the room, Grantaire can see that he looks absolutely furious. “I know this fell apart today, but it should be allowed to – we can’t do everything perfectly the first time around. That’s just not possible. We’re going to screw up, and I am so sorry for that, every time, but that doesn’t mean we should just drop everything and call it a lost battle. Do you really think you mean so little to me? Yes, I was scared and angry with you, and I wish I never had to see you that way again, but I know I’ll have to and I know that I’ll deal with it, so just please, stop being a fucking martyr and actually talk to me!”

“Martyr,” Grantaire mumbles. “Oh. That’s what we all are.”

“What… R,” Enjolras sighs, exasperated. “Please, don’t. Stop it.”

“Did you find Mabeuf?”

“That’s not what we’re talking about right now.”

“I think it is. Mabeuf is half the fault of last night, at least. He can share the blame.”

“Grantaire, look at me,” Enjolras’ hand is in his hair now, holding him in place: Grantaire knows that, should he wish to, he could break out of the hold, but he finds he can’t move at all, he can only do as Enjolras asks, as Enjolras wants.

That’s all he’s ever wanted to do, after all. He should be happy to be in a position like this.

He’s fucking terrified instead.

“I’m going to ask you again,” Enjolras’ voice is low and somewhere between giving an order and pleading, and Grantaire can’t stand it. “Do you want me to leave now, and come back tomorrow so we can discuss this further, without the sleep-deprivation? Or can I stay? That’s all I wanted to know. I’m not leaving you, not when we haven’t even talked this through. Please, Grantaire, I… you’re…” he stops himself, at a loss for words, and Grantaire thinks he knows what the other man could say, but he never _would_ say it: and then Enjolras pulls him closer, mouth pressing against his forehead, his chin, his nose, whispering _‘please’_ against his skin, and Grantaire knows he’s just lost whatever battle was fought.

He really doesn’t care at all. He’s happily waving the surrender-flag, to be honest.

“Stay,” he whispers. “Stay. But talk to me, please? About something else.” he can’t be left alone with his thoughts now, he needs distraction or they’re going to start piling up again, building walls and fortresses that makes him think he has to push Enjolras out of this bed, out of the flat, out of his life.

“I couldn’t find Mabeuf,” Enjolras obliges, mouth still so tantalizingly close. “But we found Tilly. She explained a few things. I’m calling a meeting tomorrow, and we’ll try to get all of our facts straight. I talked to Jehan as well, he said he’d been here. He’s… he convinced me that I should come back tonight.”

Grantaire is going to kiss Jehan the next time he sees him.

“I don’t want you to come to the meeting tomorrow,” Enjolras suddenly says, and Grantaire feels his heart drop to the pit of his stomach.

“Oh…”

“Let me finish,” Enjolras mutters, already sensing his growing dread. “That was phrased badly: I don’t think you should be there. The others agree. You’ve been through too much, you… you nearly died, and you don’t even remember. It is not fair that we keep pulling you into it, especially not when you yourself have expressed a desire not to be. So maybe it would be better if you stayed here, let the storm blow over.”

“You’re afraid I’m going to do something stupid.”

“No, R, that’s not…”

“And what, you’ve been having in-depth discussions with the others about me?” Grantaire can feel his anger growing. “Poor Grantaire, must protect him from the big bad… what? Is it Javert, or is it because you think I just can’t handle it in general?”

“I’ve seen how you handle it, and it’s not pretty,” Enjolras has raised his voice now, pulling away so that he can look him in the eye again. “I’m trying to help you, could you not fight me every step of the way? Trust me when I say that there is nothing I want more than for you to remember, but you’ve made your own feelings on that perfectly clear, so I won’t push you. And I’m not budging: I meant it when I said I was going to keep you safe.”

Grantaire has to fight not to roll his eyes. “You’re not my fucking bodyguard.”

He’s hardly even finished his sentence before Enjolras has pressed their mouths together, hard and furious, and over too soon.

“You drive me insane,” Enjolras hisses when he pulls away. “You’re everywhere, and then you avoid me, and then I have you right here, like now, and I still don’t know what you’re thinking, still don’t know if you’re really here with me, and it’s fucking maddening, Grantaire, you have no idea. And I’m not a mind-reader, I don’t… when you say you want me to leave, I feel like you’re asking me to rip my own arm off, and it’s not fair if you then don’t even mean it, do you understand? It’s cruel, and I can’t even find it in myself to stay angry with you, not when you’re looking at me like that and I know you’re pushing me away because you’re a fucking moron who doesn’t see his own worth, and not because you enjoy tormenting me. But I _don’t get it,_ I don’t get how you can’t see it.” His fingers are digging into Grantaire’s shoulder now, pressing him down into the bed, long curls brushing against his skin from where he’s leaning down, so close. “I _need you._ Fuck it all, I’ve said it before, I should be able to admit it to you, of all people. I need you, Grantaire, so unless you mean it, don’t fucking tell me to go away. I can’t bear it. I can’t.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire immediately mumbles, because Enjolras’ eyes are shining too clear, too bright, and if he starts crying he doesn’t know what he’ll do, fuck, Enjolras doesn’t cry, can’t cry, not over fucking _him_. He reaches forward to grab hold of Enjolras’ t-shirt by his waist, bunching the material between shaking fists. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“Thank-you,” Enjolras whispers, pressing their foreheads together.

“I didn’t… I’m so sorry…”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry too. No, R, really, it’s okay, it’s okay, I mean it, we’ll figure this out.”

Grantaire lets out a shaking breath. “Why would you even ask me if I wanted you to leave, if you weren’t going to listen anyway?”

Enjolras tenses. “Do you…”

“ _No._ ”

“Good, okay, yeah, good. I’m… probably as terrified as you are, and I’m not sure if you…”

“I love you,” Grantaire mumbles, because he thinks maybe Enjolras wants to hear it, and because he can’t help himself.

He’s rewarded with a smile.

“Well, I’ll stay then,” he lowers himself until he’s lying down beside him again, holding him close as if, yet again, Grantaire is his very own personal teddy-bear or other such cuddly toy.

Grantaire can, quite honestly, completely get on board with that.

Of course, he has to relax enough for his brain-filter to go on holiday again.

“Why do you want me to remember so badly?” he asks, and immediately regrets it, because this is exactly what he didn’t want to talk about, what Enjolras had said he’d respect, and fuck, he’s doing it again, he’s messing everything up.

“Sorry,” he mumbles when Enjolras’ eyes snap open in surprise to look at him. “I’m… no, ignore me and let’s enjoy this moment instead, and not start screaming at each other. Again.”

“Why do you ask?” Enjolras mumbles, his voice soft, imploring Grantaire to be honest and to take his time, and just…

“It’s important to you,” _so it’s important to me as well._ He hopes Enjolras doesn’t hear that last bit in his voice: he thinks he probably does anyway.

“If I tell you, will you stay out of this?” Enjolras asks. “Will you give me whatever information you have and then stay here for the meeting tomorrow? And not go traipsing around the country with anyone, not even Cosette, and putting yourself in danger again?”  

“Are you blackmailing me?” Grantaire is outraged. And a little turned on.

“It’s not…” Enjolras sighs. “I’m not trying to manipulate you. I can’t actually stop you from… from doing any of those things, nor would I want to. I’m not imprisoning you, Grantaire. But I would… fuck it, I’d just like some kind of reassurance that we won’t get another call from the hospital or that I won’t walk in through the door and find you lying dead in a pool of your own blood. The nightmares are bad enough.”

“Nightmares?”

Enjolras looks like he wants to bite his own tongue off. “I…”

“You’re still having nightmares?”

“My boyfriend was shot and nearly killed by a madman whose still going free,” Enjolras deadpans, in that way he does when he’s embarrassed about something and doesn’t want to show it, hiding behind sarcasm instead. “Yes, it affects me a little bit.”

Grantaire smiles slightly. “I wasn’t your boyfriend when I was shot.”

“A moot point, my feelings didn’t spring forth when that happened, they were there already. Which I’ve already told you.”

That much was true: it makes a warm feeling settle in Grantaire’s chest. “You owe me another story now,” he says. “And I won’t come to the meeting tomorrow. I’ll stay home and heal and maybe actually get Gavroche to do his homework, for once. Unless he’s going to the meeting as well, which, he’s way too young for that, let me say it now. I do not approve. I’m even using my ‘responsible adult’-voice to show you have much I don’t approve.”

“Fair enough,” Enjolras mumbles, a small smile forming. “I think he’s too young as well. It is probably for the better. And he can keep an eye on you.”

“Haha, I can keep an eye on myself. I won’t do anything stupid, I promise. So. Story-time. Now.”

Enjolras runs his hair through Grantaire’s curls, eyes unfocused as if far away. He’s just about to open his mouth and start talking, when the front-door is thrown open, and a voice that sounds like Eponine shrieks through the flat.

“Grantaire! Fuck, Grantaire, get your fucking ass out of bed, Gavroche is missing. _Grantaire!”_

 

*****

 

Gavroche being a bit out of reach is nothing new. The boy was like a fly, buzzing around, or a street-cat that you sometimes fed, always independent and able to handle itself, but it liked to come back and get something nice to eat and a warm, dry place to sleep, just once in a while.

However, for all that the little boy flittered around the city like something on fire, there was always ways to get a hold of him. If it was him actually having remembered to bring his phone, or someone who knew someone who’d seen him by the river or in the park, or, more often than not, Courfeyrac somehow knowing the exact location of where the boy was currently at, even had he moved from where the other man had last seen him, somehow there was always something.

There was _nothing_ now. No whispers, no exasperated teachers telling them that they hadn’t seen Gavroche for classes the entire week, no little street urchins nodding with a glint in their eyes, no shop-owners threatening to call the police if he came near their business again.

There’s nothing. Which is why they’ve basically called everyone they know, including Cosette’s dad, who’d shown genuine concern about the small boy, and mobilized them throughout the city, on the look-out.

Grantaire can’t help but think of bullets ringing through the air and Mabeuf and Ella telling him _‘tests, tests, you will be tested, you are soldiers’_ and fuck it, he didn’t sign up for a goddamn war, he is not doing this.

But he needs to find Gavroche, and if this is the test, well, then he’s going to pass. He’s not going to let his semi-adoptive brother die just because he’s trying to prove a point. He can’t help but feel that this is somehow his fault, that if he hadn’t confronted Ella this way, hadn’t been so snarky with Mabeuf, then it wouldn’t have been Gavroche. It wouldn’t be someone he feels this responsible for.

He has the brief thought that he might go insane like his aunt, if he should fail. Might end up frail and dejected, sitting in some ‘safe house’, with nothing but memories and guilt to keep him company.

He must be shivering at the thoughts, because Enjolras suddenly laces his fingers through his, hand warm and steady against Grantaire’s.

“We’re going to find him,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” Grantaire mumbles, forcing himself to sound as brave as he can. Gavroche can take care of himself, he really can.

They continue down the street, ignoring the few passer-by’s as night falls, both lost in thought and preoccupied with looking for the little boy. They had all decided not to call the police, both because Gavroche hadn’t actually been missing long enough for them to help, but also because… well, if there are ghosts or the reincarnation of Napoleon or some shit involved, they’ve all seen enough television to know that the police are likely to be more of a hindrance than a help. Official forces usually don’t take well to devils and whatnot suddenly breathing down on them, and Grantaire would really rather be out looking for Gavroche than spending time in a prison-cell.

They end up at the end of the street, meeting Cosette, Courfeyrac and Marius, whose been starting their search on the other end, but apparently coming up as empty-handed as them. It’s all Grantaire can do not to punch the wall beside him. It wouldn’t do any good, he knows. Courfeyrac would roll his eyes, Marius would fuss, Cosette would get all worried, and Enjolras would get angry with him. They need to find Gavroche – they don’t have time to get to the hospital because he’s broken all his fingers.

Speaking of…

“Eponine called the hospital again,” Cosette says, because she can read his mind like that. “But they still don’t have anyone matching Gavroche’s description. Have you heard anything from any of the others?”

“No,” Enjolras says, looking through his phone to see if there’s any missed calls: he’s very deliberately not looking at Cosette, which is something Grantaire really needs to talk to him about. Whenever the two of them, Enjolras and Cosette, has been in the same room together for the past three weeks, there’s been ice in the air between them, and Grantaire can guess that it probably has something to do with him, and also with Enjolras’ new over-protective instincts (which are also the courtesy of them being on the same search-team tonight, not that Grantaire is complaining about that), but what has gone down between them exactly is another story. He has no idea, because Cosette and him hasn’t talked that much ever since, and Enjolras skirts around the subject like a particularly weasely weasel.

And now really is not the time to bring it up.

“We should get back to Eponine,” Grantaire mumbles, the girl being at the place they’d decided to meet up once they’d finished at their respective area. He fiercely hopes that the others have had more luck, but she would have called them, had that been the case. “Figure out what we’re going to do next.”

“I want to stop by the café first,” Enjolras says, pulling Grantaire slightly in that direction. “Musichetta’s working a shift there, she might know something.”

 _You think Mabeuf is there_ , Grantaire realizes, but keeps his mouth shut. He’s not sure why Enjolras doesn’t just come out and say it, but he has a nagging feeling that it’s the ‘keep everyone safe’-mentality at play again.

“We’ll meet with you later,” Grantaire says to the others then, trying to ignore Cosette’s worried frown or the very pointed look Courfeyrac sends Enjolras.

He wonders what else they talked about in his absence. He doesn’t ask, merely follows Enjolras down the street: the other man stops around a corner however, where they are somewhat hidden from sight of any people that may walk by. Before Grantaire can ask what he’s doing, he’s been pulled in for a kiss, Enjolras arms wrapping around his torso so tightly it’s actually hurting a little, putting strain on the almost closed wound near the area. But he doesn’t care – he’s being overtaken, like waves from the sea crashing over the shore, and there isn’t pain, not of any kind, just Enjolras clutching at him like this, lips moving against each other.

“I would ask you to go home,” Enjolras says as he pulls away, and Grantaire wonders off-hand how the hell the man has air enough left to speak after that. Grantaire certainly doesn’t. “I’d ask you to stay somewhere safe, but I know you wouldn’t listen. So can you please just promise me not to do anything stupid?”

His head is sort of reeling, but he tries to gather his thoughts enough to answer. “Isn’t that why you’re here, to make sure that I don’t?” he asks with a grin that quickly falls away at Enjolras expression. It’s torn and angry and so sad, it makes Grantaire’s heart ache. “I don’t deliberately try to get myself in trouble,” he mumbles, slightly ashamed. “It’s… it’s really not on purpose.”

“I know. But I need to… if we find Mabeuf I need to talk to him alone, and I won’t ask you to stay and wait for me, not when Gavroche still needs to be found, but I just… promise me? That you’ll be careful?”

Grantaire wonders if this is what it’s like to be in love – not to fall in love, or stay that way, looking at the object of your affections from afar for more than three years, without any hope of anything ever happening, but instead _this_ : now that he has it, it’s one part of two that go together. He wonders if it’s normal to feel this desperate and without ground to stand all the time, wonders if its normal to always second-guess, to worry and fight until there is nothing but skin and bones left. Skin and bones and blood.

“Of course,” he says. “I promise.”

Enjolras kisses his forehead, quickly, hands lingering only slightly longer before letting go. “I’ll see you in a few hours,” he says.

He wants to ask what Enjolras is going to do to Mabeuf once he finds him – what he’s going to say. If Mabeuf is actually going to survive the encounter, because there had been a dangerous glint in Enjolras’ eyes, the same one he got whenever Grantaire mentioned getting shot. He wants to ask, wants to know, but he doesn’t. He trusts that Enjolras will be sensible and will tell him, later. Hopefully.

He turns down the street, and nearly collides with a small boy that comes running from the other side: a quite familiar, little boy.

“Gavroche! Fucking hell!” Grantaire reaches out to steady him, and also to make sure he doesn’t take off again. He looks a little pale, but also excited, out of breath after running. “Are you okay? Where the hell have you been! Is someone after you?”

“No-one’s after me,” Gavroche replies, looking a little annoyed at the question. “Not right now.” Ah, _well that’s fine then!_ Grantaire scowls at him. “Grantaire, I need to show you…”

“That, little mister, can wait,” he says, starting to walk and dragging the boy after him, digging through his pockets for his phone while he does so. “Your sister is worried sick, everyone’s worried sick, so we are going straight to her and then you can sit down and explain why you decided to suddenly disappear…”

“But Grantaire, its important… don’t do that!” Gavroche knocks the phone out of Grantaire’s hands before he can even start dialling, and it falls to the ground with a loud clatter, breaking into several pieces as it hits the pavement.

“Fucking hell, why’d you do that?” Grantaire hisses, bending down to pick up the pieces, letting Gavroche go in the meantime. “Well, this is dead and gone. You owe me a new phone, this is so going out of that allowance of yours that sort of isn’t there to begin with, I hope you know that.”

Gavroche rolls his eyes at him. The little shit.

“Could you maybe listen to me? This is…”

“No, we’re going,” he can feel the last of his patience snap. This has been a couple of days from hell, he’s sore and tired, and still not over the panic of _what if we don’t find him_ , and Enjolras has possibly left to go do something stupid and heroic, or possibly just stupid, and Grantaire only let him go alone because he was so damn worried about Gavroche, which still wasn’t nearly half as worried as Eponine has been, so he grabs Gavroche’s arm again and starts walking. The boy follows instead of struggling, thankfully, because Grantaire is no good at coaxing children and he isn’t willing to actually hurt him, no matter how much he’s acting like a confusing little brat. “I can’t believe you’ve just left for so long! No-one knew where you were, not even Courf! Courf always knows! Do you have any idea how freaked out we were?”

“I went to see…”

“I mean, you could have been dead in a ditch, or floating in the Seine. Did you know they found my dad’s body in the Seine? Would you have liked to be one of the bodies floating around in the water? What the hell would we have done, Gavroche, why couldn’t you have told us? We’ve been looking for hours!”

“Grantaire, it was one of the officers…”

“I mean, are you even listening to me? Dead, Gavroche, that’s what you could have been. There’s so much shit going on right now, I wasn’t even looking for trouble and I ended up in the hospital, you’re just a kid, and I know you can handle yourself, but that also implies thinking, okay, and disappearing like this is not good. What if we’d never found you, at all?”

“Grantaire…”

“Gavroche!” Eponine’s voice rings clear through the streets, as she starts running towards them, appearing as if summoned by Grantaire’s thoughts. Which would be really neat, if they could do that. “You little shit! I was so fucking worried!”

Grantaire stops now that they’ve arrived safely, feeling some of the tension leave him, but Gavroche starts pulling at his sleeve again, ignoring his sister.

“Grantaire, he gave me this!” Gavroche hisses, opening his palm to show him.

It’s an old pocket-watch, bronze and worn with age, the chain speckled with rust and swinging lightly in the air where it hangs from between Gavroche’s fingers.

“Great, a rusty antique,” Grantaire mutters, letting the boy go and feeling the tiredness seep into his bones now that the adrenaline from his earlier fear is leaving him. “We can add that to our collections of other old shit, like that table and Mabeuf.”

“It’s _yours!”_

“Yes, because I’m so mindful of the time,” Grantaire mutters, as Eponine finally reaches them, practically flying in to hug her brother.

“I was so worried,” she mumbles, as Gavroche awkwardly pats her back. Grantaire wonders if the little boy can even breathe, Eponine is holding him so tightly. “Where have you been?”

Gavroche pulls slightly away from her, the watch falling to the ground between them.

“I’ve been out looking,” he says, his eyes excited. “And I met one of the officers! One of the ones that fought us back at the Barricade.”

“Okay,” Grantaire’s eyes go wide. “You are _way_ too excited about meeting someone that gunned you down. What the hell Gav?”

“Oh, it wasn’t him exactly, he didn’t even give the order for that. He would never,” the boy says with conviction and _oh-kay._ Grantaire is not less worried. At all.

“Enough of this,” Eponine snaps. “We are going to go home, right now, is that understood? And then, after I’ve shouted at you for an hour, and Enjolras has shouted at you for two, and Courf has cried in relief and Combeferre has gently, but sternly scolded you, then you’ll get hot cocoa and then maybe a chance to explain why the hell you decided it was a good idea to go lolly-gagging across Paris without informing anyone of where you were. Got it?”

Gavroche sighs, looking dejected, taking a few steps away from his sister. “Fine. But can I just…”

Grantaire doesn’t get to hear what Gav would like to do first, because a loud sound, like a siren screams through the air, blocking out all other noise, and the ground caves in under his feet.

 

 

 

He wakes in half-darkness, small rays of light flickering down and making him able to see only a little around him. There’s water dripping down from above, landing in his hair, a steady drip that feels like a drum beating into his skull. Something much stickier than water is trickling down his face. Possibly blood – he feels lightheaded, disorientated, aware only of the pain and the wet, and the hard, cold stone underneath him.

Slowly he wakes, very slowly: everything hurts, but nothing really feels broken. There’s someone behind him, breathing softly, he can feel the slight heat of another person streaming into his back, the only source of warmth around him. The water’s still trickling, hitting skin and hair, pavement and…

And metal. The thing Gavroche had dropped glints from beside him, and almost in spite of himself, Grantaire reaches out for it.

His skin touches the soft curve of the watch, and he remembers.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've just started my exams, and three of them are next week, so I am going to be very busy: even though the next part(s) is written, it is not edited properly, and so I don't know if it'll be up next Friday or not until Friday the 7th (or sometime that week). I know, it's very cruel to end it here and then leave you hanging, but yeah, exams and real life has to come first.
> 
> Three guesses as to who the 'officer' Gavroche spoke to was


End file.
